The End of Days
by Devoto Draconis
Summary: What would you do, if you only had three days?


Title: The End of Days _Part 1_

Spoilers: Post-HBP

Warnings: A little bit of swearing and angst but thats about it. . .

Disclaimer: I own none of the characters, Hogwarts, or anything resembling JKR's work.

AN: I got the idea for this fic when I noticed the lack of RL/DM slash out there, but as such, this is not really slash.

* * *

Three days. It was all he had left. His days were numbered. Just three.

It didn't seem to be such a remarkable number, three. Superstition passed the harmless sounding number by, neither good, nor bad luck having been predicted with such a mundane figure. Still, huddled in the corner of a rundown shack once known as one of Britain's most haunted buildings, Draco thought that _three_ sounded a particularly malicious number.

He knew it was only his particular circumstances that he used to attribute malevolency to the number but he couldn't bring himself to care.

Pale fingers, tinged blue with cold, reached up to tug at greasy blonde locks, a nervous gesture that the former Slytherin had thought he had outgrown years ago. Then again, there had been very little to unnerve him up until just a few years ago.

Draco couldn't easily pin-point the exact time when things had started to go wrong. It could have been when he had stood upon the stone steps of Hogwarts and lowered his wand, unable to bring himself to kill. Or one could backtrack further and protest that it had been his acceptance of the Dark Mark just last summer that had brought him to this foul deathbed. Even further back one could argue that it started when his father had been thrown into Azkaban. Or it could all come back to Harry Potter as most things did. Had the foul little twerp died when he was hit by the killing curse maybe this would never have happened and he would be back at the Manor, sitting down to an early supper with his mother and father.

Though he knew that brooding and thinking too much led only to bitter pain and brutal terror, there was little else to do but brood and sleep in this time-worn shack. Sleep, he had found, was not the release it once was. So he sat, and he thought.

Draco was not alone in his captivity but the thought of speaking to the other man both abhorred and horrified him. So, much of the time, he acted as if the other simply was not there. At first though, the man had tried to talk to him, to comfort, or perhaps, his not-so-logical mind provided, to tease him with the promise of death soon to come. Draco had coped the only way he knew how, by yelling and screaming and ranting and throwing every unfortunate object to come within his reach.

Soon after that incident, Draco stopped talking at all. He withdrew into an unbreakable silence, hardly moving except to go to the loo or the kitchen. The man had given him the only bedroom and had left him alone since Draco's outburst. That had been four days ago, though it seemed not but one.

The entirety of the few days, and even the last year had felt like on long, endless dream. Nearly the whole time he had been at Hogwarts, from November on, he had been sick. Not deathly ill or even overtly ill, but fatigue and stress had often-times kept him bed-ridden despite knowing that he had to work on the cabinet, that his time was running out. Strangely, he could still remember all too clearly the desperation and despair those months had brought, but the short-lived triumph of completing the cabinet was but a dim dream.

Draco knew, _knew_, without a doubt that he was not a good person. He was a liar and a sneak, manipulative, mean, self-serving and a whole lot of other less than desirable traits. But, when faced by the frail and dying Dumbledore, the former-Slytherin had discovered something about himself. He was _not_ a _murderer_.

Snape, however, was. He should have felt, relieved that Snape had taken the burden of the man's death from him, or angry that the Potions Master had destroyed his last hope. Even so, all he could remember feeling at the time, was scared.

Draco had vividly recalled his Aunt Bella's last words to him before he had left for Hogwarts that year.

"_Our master has given you a task Draco, which will bring you much glory and recognition should you succeed. However Draco, you are not the only one who seeks this fortune. Trust no one. Especially not Severus, he looks out for no one but himself."_

Keeping those words in mind, when Snape had told him to run he had done just that. He had run from the Order trailing behind them as they made to escape Hogwarts, and he ran from Snape and from the Dark Lord without once looking back. He knew, the only thing left for him if he returned to Voldemort, was death.

The months after that were a blur. Running, hiding and running again, never staying in one place long enough to be caught and constantly on his guard. The, five days ago, he had slipped up, and snatched up by Death Eater spies.

He had been brought before the Dark Lord and _crucio_ed while Voldemort revelled in his pained screams. He had been told that would be the least of his punishment. For running, he was to be made an example of.

Not long after that Draco had, mercifully, passed out, and when he had awoken, limbs screaming in pain from his recent torture, he had found himself in none other than the Shrieking Shack. While not a particularly pleasant place, Draco had been one of the few that had never believed the Shack was haunted and had often come to linger outside the Shack on Hogsmead visits, knowing that few ventured up there.

Voldemort's reasons for abandoning him in the Shack were at first baffling, but once he had discovered the other occupant in the Shack, his reasons had become far too clear.

Draco had been stuck, here under an imperturbable charm, with a werewolf, just a week from the full moon.

As if that wasn't enough, the werewolf was none other than the old Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Remus Lupin. It had been Lupin who had told him about the imperturbable. Apparently, the only thing haunting the Shack had been Lupin, during his days as a Hogwarts student. Wolfsbane potion not yet created, the old DADA teacher had needed someplace to go during the full moon and so a tunnel had been used to transport him from the Hogwarts grounds to the Shack. The rumours of the Shack being haunted had only served to make the place safer by keeping people away.

Ever the precautious one though, Dumbledore had created an imperturbable that prevented escape from the house by anyway but the tunnel. It had not taken much effort for the Dark Lord to extend the wards to include the tunnel.

In short, they were stuck, as the wards could only be dismantled from the outside and the chance of rescue was slim. Lupin had told him too, that his precious, _Order_ was used to not receiving regular owls from him. Though he hadn't said so in as many words, it was likely that by the time anyone thought to look for him, they would both already be dead.

Lupin himself, was just a means to an end. Voldemort had used him because he was convenient and disposable. He had been well aware of the werewolf's mission for the Order to recruit others like him, but the Dark Lord had not worried about that, his dogs were loyal.

Draco sighed painfully. His body had still not fully recovered from the torture of a few days ago. Even so, he ignored the pain, bringing his knees to his chest and pressing his face to his knees, seeking some amount of warmth, or comfort.

He dimly heard the floorboards creak but the blonde made no movement to acknowledge the other man that was undoubtedly standing just outside the door. Truthfully, Draco had been surprised that the werewolf had stayed away as long as he had. It was probably that misplaced Gryffindor guilt that had kept him at bay.

The door creaked open on rusty hinges, the sound unbearably loud in the otherwise silent room.

"Draco?"

The Slytherin didn't answer, didn't move other than to press his face harder to his knees, his eyes resting on a slash torn in the wallpaper to his right. Silently he prayed the man would get the hint and go away. He didn't want to talk, especially not with the man that, in three days time, would be the death of him.

The man ignored his silent pleas, Gryffindor stubbornness coming into play as the man crept into the room, softly calling his name once more.

When Lupin rested his hand on Draco's shoulder, the blonde flinched away in surprise and disgust. "Don't fucking touch me," he growled, his voice rasping slightly with disuse.

Lupin looked mildly surprised at the acidic tone Draco used, and a bit like he wanted to reprimand him for his language, though he didn't. He said instead, "Sorry."

Draco thought that'd be the end of it, but apparently the werewolf had other plans because, while he didn't speak, neither did he make any move to leave the room.

The blonde sighed heavily, the silence weighty and uncomfortable. "What do you want?"

"Only to talk."

"I thought I'd made it clear, talking was the last thing I wanted to do, especially in the current company," Draco answered disgustedly, and really, was the man that thick?

"What you want and what you need, Draco, are two very different things."

"Bullshit. What I need is for you to fuck off and leave me alone," the Slytherin snarled hatefully.

Lupin sighed, and Draco noticed for the first time, just how gaunt the man was. Back when he had taught at Hogwarts he had been scruffy and slightly underfed, with ragged clothes and dark bags under his eyes. That man could almost be called healthy compared to the one that stood before him now.

His skin was ashen, his cheeks hollow and sunken, the dark smudges beneath his eyes more pronounced than ever. His clothes were more ragged than ever and a dark stain was apparent on his left side.

Upon noticing this Draco realized that maybe, it was not so much that Lupin thought Draco needed to talk, but that the werewolf himself needed it.

Though normally not one to convenience hopeless Gryffindors Draco figured that he was one of the last people Lupin would go to if there was any other choice. The thing was, there was no other choice. There was no one else. Just them. Truthfully, much as he didn't want to talk to the werewolf, he did want to talk.

"You're not going to leave, are you?" Draco asked resignedly.

"Only if you truly want me to."

After those softly spoken words, neither spoke, letting the silence linger oppressively. Draco, again, was the first to break the stillness. "Was there anything in particular you wanted to talk about?"

"Anything I suppose," the werewolf said softly, approaching the bed warily as if Draco was a skittish colt that would bolt if he came too near. The former Slytherin didn't move even as he felt the bed shift beneath him to accommodate the slightly larger Lupin. The bed frame groaned in protest of the man's slight weight but held steady.

Draco shifted slightly to the side accommodatingly, giving the man more room so he wasn't sitting on the edge of the bed. The former DADA professor shot him a grateful smile, settling more comfortably beside him.

"Do you hate me?"

Lupin seemed caught off guard by the question and even Draco himself was surprised at the words. "What brought that on?" Lupin asked finally, confused/

"Just curious I suppose. I did help kill your precious leader." Saying that out loud hurt more than it should have. Though he didn't consider himself a murderer, the fact that he had helped to kill a man didn't change. That this fact brought him no pleasure and only pain was further proof that he had not belonged with the Death Eaters.

"You didn't kill Dumbledore Draco, Snape did."

"If he hadn't come—"

"You lowered your wand Draco," Lupin cut in. "You weren't going to kill him. It wasn't even the Death Eaters you let into Hogwarts that killed him, it was the one already there."

Draco snorted, so typical of Gryffindors, always willing to believe in the good of people. "I nearly killed Weasley and Katie Bell," Draco offered nonchalantly.

"But you didn't."

"Mere happenstance," he stated, looking over at the werewolf.

Lupin frowned, as if pondering a reply to that. When, for a few moments Lupin said nothing Draco felt a twinge of disappointment, as if he had been waiting for someone, anyone, to tell him he was _not _evil.

"Did you choose to become a Death Eater Draco?"

Draco blinked, surprised at the question. "No one forced me to become one if that's what you mean," Draco said slowly.

"That wasn't what I asked."

"My father wanted me to join the Death Eaters, but he wouldn't have forced me if I didn't want to," the Slytherin explained hesitantly. "Mother didn't want me to join the Dark Lord." Lupin said nothing, only listened and waited patiently for him to continue. He didn't. Instead, he turned to his former professor frowning. "I know what you're asking, but I . . . whatever I chose, it doesn't change the fact that I _am _a Death Eater. I am not, nor will I ever be a good person. If things had turned out differently and Weasley or Bell had died then I doubt we'd be having this conversation. My intention was murder at that time."

"Do you regret what you did?"

"Yes," Draco whispered, remembering how, when he had gotten word of Bell being sent to St. Mungo's he had felt sick, had spent the night in the washroom being sick. He supposed he should have realised then that he was not cut out for the task that had been assigned to him but by then it was far too late to back out.

For a long moment there was silence, before Lupin spoke, startling Draco from his own thoughts. "What?" Draco asked, unsure if he had heard the question right.

"Which Quidditch team do you support?"

Draco frowned, "What brought that up?"

"Well, I remember you were seeker for Slytherin at Hogwarts, so I was just curious to know who you favoured for the cup this year?"

His frown deepened before he realised Lupin was trying to change the subject, which was fine with him. Draco let himself relax slightly, surprised at the amount of tension he had held. "Falmouth Falcons," he answered confidently once he had loosened up.

"Really?" Lupin chuckled suddenly.

"What's so funny about that," the Slytherin snapped, bristling.

Lupin smiled as quoted, "_Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads_."

"So? It's a good strategy," Draco said somewhat defensively. "What's your favourite team then?"

"I don't follow Quidditch all that much anymore, but in my younger I did rather favour the Montrose Magpies."

"Blaise used to like the Magpies too," Draco whispered somewhat regretfully, before shrugging. "Oh well, anything is better than supporting those god-awful Cannons I suppose."

Much of the rest of the day was spent like that, in mindless chatter. They both avoided any subjects like Hogwarts, the war and the impending full moon, instead talking about pointless things such as Quidditch, Celestina Warbeck as a singer opposed to Weird Sisters. Lupin shared a few of his own memories from Hogwarts, much to Draco's surprise. He had heard many of the same stories from his father as a child but it was . . . enlightening to see them from another persons perspective.

In the short time they spoke Draco observed a lot of the former Hogwarts professor. Whenever he spoke of his schooldays he would get a distant look of pain in his eyes, and if he was uncertain about something he would run a hand back through his greying hair. Loneliness too resonated within the somewhat sombre man.

All in all, the werewolf was different than he remembered from Hogwarts, but then again, when Lupin had been the DADA professor, Draco had only remembered hating him because he and Potter had gotten along so well.

Draco started violently when he heard a bell chime loudly within the dilapidated house signalling the end of another day. The blonde refrained from looking at Lupin after the foreboding toll, and Lupin left at his softly uttered request.

Draco bit his lip. _Just two more days_.


End file.
